


in the same breath as God

by cherry_cup



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/M, Mind Games, Older Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25851733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry_cup/pseuds/cherry_cup
Summary: AU. Hermione interviews the second most important man in Grindelwald's fascist government.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 27
Kudos: 204





	in the same breath as God

**Author's Note:**

> Another oneshot I wanted to publish before I return to Stepbrother. This is loosely inspired by the dynamic between Hans Landa and Shosanna in Inglourious Basterds. Hope you enjoy!

She looks like a starving librarian.

Her clean yet shabby suit and the softly unraveling braid of hair give him his first inkling of Miss Granger. Her condition is befitting of her station. And though she is not a librarian any longer ever since landing the job with the Daily Prophet, there is still something austere and paper-worn about her appearance.

So far, she has done an excellent job of keeping the questions abstract and hypothetical. She is coolly polite and attentive, yet he can see by the way she taps her wand against her notebook that she is adding her own commentary to his answers.

He almost feels tempted to crane his neck and see, but someone like her probably uses a cipher. She seems scrubbed clean of any improper material.

"Lastly," she says, pulling a stray lock from her braid behind her air, "I would like to ask you about the current governmental initiative to give back native lands to the goblins and whether you see any possible obstacles in the smooth running of said initiative."

Tom Riddle considers her behind half-shut eyelids. This is a softball question, if there ever was any. The restoration of land to the goblins is a non-controversial move that has stirred little political talk. Oh certainly, there are some radicals out there who believe this is only a cynical strategy of buttering up the goblin population and ensure their future support in elections, but any smart government would do the same.

Miss Granger has waited for months to interview him for the Prophet, and yet when given the chance she does not bite even a little bit from the apple. He wonders why.

"Is that _really_ what you would like to ask me?" he asks instead.

Miss Granger blinks, looks down at her notes, as if to check she hasn't asked the wrong question.

"Why, yes. Unless you object to the question, Sir."

"Hmm. I do not, but I don't believe you're interested in my answer."

"Of course I am. Our readers care very deeply about goblin issues. Some of our readers are also goblins," she replies evenly, keeping very still, as if making sure nothing is out of place.

But Tom knows he intimidates her. Yes, he intimidates most people as Grindelwald's right hand. But there is something distinct about her fear, something personal. The more she tries to formalize the interview and appear professional, the more he suspects a certain underlying tension.

As per her file, which was sent to him days in advance, Hermione Granger is a Half-Blood by birth who has always had bookish leanings but never journalistic ambitions. It's curious and inexplicable - her sudden foray into the fourth estate.

"Do _you_ care deeply about goblin issues?" he questions, turning in his chair towards the fireplace where he keeps a decanter of liquor. "Are they uppermost in your mind?"

Miss Granger frowns. "I'm afraid I don't understand the question, Sir."

Tom rises from his chair. The young woman tenses in her seat.

He smiles. Does she think he will attack her?

He walks languidly to the fireplace. "Are there no other fellow creatures whose rights interest you more?"

He stands with his back to her for a moment, but he doesn't have to see her face to know what might be found there.

"I am no barrister, Sir, but I believe that is a leading question."

Tom stirs a little in delighted surprise. He turns around with two glasses of amber liquid in his hands.

"Oh, finally some personality."

Miss Granger has the sensibility to blush. "I apologize –"

"No, please, do not censor yourself. Not now when things are getting interesting."

He can practically see her biting her tongue. He does not need to use Legilimency to guess that she is thinking about his position as Chief Censor of Grindelwald's government.

"I care about all creatures in the magical world, human and animal," she replies smoothly.

"Surely not equally, though? For that is a very amoral position to have," he responds, placing the glass in front of her on the desk. "Those who care for everyone care for no one, really."

Miss Granger stares at the glass for a few moments.

"Yes, I too have read Grindelwald's memoirs, Sir."

Tom chuckles, falling back in his seat. Oh, he is beginning to revise his opinion of her, or perhaps confirm it.

"Ah, you've caught me out. I've given this talk to that book's _editor_ , believe it or not, and even he could not tell I had been quoting our leader."

"Perhaps these nuggets of wisdom are too …universal to be connected to a single thinker," Miss Granger says, looking down at her notes.

Tom smiles. Her pertness is so happily masked by modesty. He should know, he has turned it into an art. She should have stayed hidden in the public library.

"Here is another nugget. Let's see if you recognize it." Tom clears his throat. " _La vie, que m'importe! Mon nom vivra aussi longtemps que celui de Dieu_."

Miss Granger stares at him as if she's seen a ghost.

He has learned how to read even the smallest reactions of the human body and her spine positively shudders.

"Well?" he drawls.

"The vanity sounds like Napoleon Bonaparte," she admits, after a pause.

She has masked her statement in uncertainty, but he knows she recognized the Muggle Corsican's words without much effort.

"Your knowledge of Muggle culture is impressive," she adds, bowing her head.

Tom Riddle picks up his glass. "Oh, I think yours would probably give mine a thrashing."

Hermione crosses her feet quickly and fixes the collar of her jacket.

"I wouldn't put it quite so violently."

Tom downs the contents of his glass.

"Strong stuff, but quite enlivening, wouldn't you say?"

Hermione suppresses a sigh and picks up her own glass. She takes a small sip and coughs a little.

She must have noticed it's Muggle whiskey and therefore contraband, but she says nothing.

_All right,_ Tom thinks, _I'll draw you out eventually, little sparrow._

"Do you believe Napoleon was right, by the way?" he drawls.

Miss Granger looks at him. "Right about which part, exactly?"

Tom exults. She is terribly delicious, in her own exacting fashion.

"That the present does not matter, that it's all about posterity and what you will be remembered by. That we shall last as long as the gods."

"Legacy," she intones carefully. "Our leader speaks about that often. But wizards do not believe in gods."

"No, sadly," Tom mutters, looking at a distant point beyond her. "There is a kind of fatal elegance to the gods, wouldn't you agree?"

She moves in her seat. "In what sense?"

"Well, they exist largely to satisfy us. We are their indifferent landlords who can kick them out at any time, and yet we also pretend we are subordinate to them. Why is that?"

And somehow, without any sort of communication between his mind and hers, Hermione Granger immediately understands what he is hinting at.

A hint worthy of treason.

Grindelwald is only a petty god, after all.

She taps her wand against her notebook.

"Shall we return to the issue of goblin lands?"

Her voice is clear as a bell, yet there is something different, more provocative in her eyes.

Tom blinks sedately. Yes, she understands.

"I don't believe there is any time left for the goblins. We will simply have to continue this interview at a later date. Shall we say…next Tuesday?"

Miss Granger almost drops her wand. "You wish – to continue the interview?"

"Well, you're not done, are you?"

Though the goblin issue was supposed to be her last question, she says nothing.

"Good. We shall reconvene at my apartment in the city."

Miss Granger balks. "Pardon?"

"I believe this office is not conducive to meaningful conversation," he says, moving his hand in distaste about the room. "The Ministry has little in the ways of subtlety."

"I don't think I can honor that invitation, Sir," she mumbles, gathering her papers in her briefcase. But he senses she would like to keep talking to him, if only out of curiosity.

His lips twitch. "Do you believe anything improper might happen at the new venue?"

She looks up and a flash of anger warms her eyes. "Certainly _not_."

"Then you are being quite naïve," he replies cheerily.

She pauses in her gathering. It is obvious he has confounded her. He decides to truly shock her.

"For you see, I can always tell the blood provenance of a witch just by bedding her."

There, let her grapple with that.

"That is appalling," she says, after a stunned silence.

"And yet I have never known error," he replies calmly. "And so, if you really wish to prove yourself, you ought to submit yourself to the test."

Miss Granger glares at him openly now. "Are you in the habit of sleeping with journalists, Mr. Riddle?"

"No, never. You would be my first," he says candidly, yet with something like mischief in his eyes, and by her instant blush he realizes she must be a virgin herself. How enticing.

"I feel truly special," she retorts, rising up precipitately. "But I believe I have taken up enough of your precious time."

Tom does not seem to mind her outright disrespect. He smiles. "And yet, you do not wish to prove your blood purity? What would our leader say about that?"

"He has not yet written about sexual congress as a method for blood identification, but when he does, I will be sure to abide by it," she replies, sweet and venomous.

Tom lifts his wand at her. Suddenly, he doesn't want her to leave his office. He must have a little piece of her. He means to cast an Imperius Curse.

But Hermione Granger is ready. She counterattacks expertly. Much quicker than he expected.

And suddenly –

The Imperius Curse lands back on him.

He feels the force of his will dimming, as if slugged by alcohol.

He staggers from the desk to the floor.

Hermione Granger is staring down at him in shock and disgust and – yes, oh yes, a little bit of triumph.

She holds her wand in front of his eyes.

"Hmm. What shall I make the Grand Inquisitor and Chief Censor of our Wizarding Nation under Lord Grindewald do today?" she asks in the same polite voice she used throughout the interview.

Tom Riddle watches her with rapt and helpless attention.

"A- anything," he struggles, abjectly. And he means it, curse or no. He wants to see what she would do.

"I could make you write and sign your resignation. I could even make you slit your own throat quite easily," she says softly, counting down on her fingers. "But there would be someone else instated in your place, and you have your uses. I don't suppose you'd have the strength to kill Grindelwald if I asked you…but I also think you believe you're better than him and that _you_ should be our leader. There is friction between the two of you, and you might just end up destroying each other."

She flowers before him, like vines choking the edifice of power.

He wants to wrap his hands around the vines and pull very gently, until they choke him too.

Hermione Granger chews on other possibilities, oblivious to his admiration. "I _could_ make you release all political prisoners, but I suppose that would be short-lived. No, my only satisfaction can be small… A minor humiliation."

He reaches out with his hand towards her but she steps back.

"Since you're already on the floor, you ought to clean my shoes." She lifts a foot towards him. "With your tongue."

* * *

What she did not foresee was how much the man of power thrilled to submission.

We pretend we are subordinate to the gods, but sometimes we enjoy it.

He crawls towards her in his fine, tailored robes and gathers her foot in his hands as if it were a precious thing and brings it to his mouth, like something sacred. He runs his tongue devotedly over the lint of her shoe.

Hermione shudders quietly.

He looks up at her as he repeatedly kisses the sole. It is disgusting, yet mesmerizing. He is still alluring. Monsters always are. Grindelwald chose him well, to his doom.

_This was a mistake_ , she thinks. But she can't decide on which part, exactly.

She must admit she felt a horrible thrill when he proposed a rendezvous.

At length, she wrenches her foot away.

"You will forget everything about me," she intones, holding the wand over him like a benediction. "You will not investigate my blood status any further. You will forget my name and ever having met me."

As if he understands what is being taken from him he howls in anger and longing. He slams his fist against the floorboards.

"I – will – find – _you_ ," he growls, even as his mind is slowly erased of her.

Hermione flinches, taking another step back.

Will she have to leave the Prophet too? The library sacked her under the guise of a career change precisely because her blood status was uncertain.

She does not know where else to go after this. If they find out – and they will, eventually – that she is Muggleborn, she will be excluded from all society or worse.

She will be made a prisoner.

Perhaps – perhaps she will only have the mercy and interest of Tom Riddle to fall back on.

She glares at him.

"Make sure you do," she says, by way of goodbye.

She stops in the doorway, glances over her shoulder.

"Oh, and finish that entire decanter for me, will you?"

* * *

Tom Riddle gets very drunk on Muggle whiskey, but in another sense, he is inebriated with her.

Hermione Granger walks down the Muggle streets she knows and loves and thinks about the name that will be remembered for the ages. The name uttered in the same breath as God.

Who knows, it might as well be hers.


End file.
